


it's the sound of my

by qaftsiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Background Sam/Eileen/Gabriel, Boundaries Are Important, Dean Winchester Has Self-Esteem Issues, Drag Queens, Friends to Lovers, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Long-time Best Friends Dean and Castiel, Louboutin heels, M/M, Queer Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:54:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22021381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qaftsiel/pseuds/qaftsiel
Summary: Dean learns a thing or two when Eileen, Charlie, and Gabe shanghai him into a night at a drag show.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 5
Kudos: 27





	it's the sound of my

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a music video, Alphonse Mucha's 'The Moon and the Stars', Gustav Klimt's 'Judith and the Head of Holofernes', and Louboutin stilettos. I did quite a bit of research and friend-pestering to make sure I didn't write anything egregiously problematic, and no one seemed to have anything significant to point out, but still consider this your ticket to thwap me with a newspaper if I f***ed up somewhere.
> 
> See end notes for soundtrack and some extra tidbits!

Dean’s not expecting to walk into what feels like a 1970s discotheque, and yet that’s exactly what he gets when he, Charlie, Eileen, and Gabe finally make their way up to the bar after twenty very icy minutes of searching for parking. Rose Royce’s “Car Wash” practically pours out of the vestibule door along with a gust of the bar’s heated air. The bar itself is pretty well out of the way of his usual haunts-- way north of the Loop and only a few blocks west of Sheridan-- but what Charlie wants, Charlie gets, especially when Eileen and Gabe are in on it. If Sam wasn’t neck-deep in a major case, Dean’s dead certain he’d be here. Cas would, too, but he’d said he had some kind of art thing tonight. He’d seemed really excited about it, though, so Dean can’t find it in himself to be too grumpy. He likes seeing Cas when he’s excited about his artwork.

When they make it past the vestibule and into the bar proper, it becomes clear that part of the floor has been cleared out into a sort of T-shaped stage space. At the moment, an angel in day-glo orange platform boots and a dazzlingly-sequined go-go dress rules it, candy-orange lips moving in sync to Royce’s lyrics. She almost seems to glow under the lights, glitter-brushed cheeks dimpling as she smiles through her lipsync, wings flicking and braided hair flying with her movements. She’s clearly enjoying putting on her show. 

He finds himself smiling, too, as they settle their little squad into a clear-ish spot near the base of the T. He can’t say the neon 60’s look is quite his bag, but she’s good at what she does, and her enthusiasm is contagious.

“So whaddya think of your first drag show, Dean-o?” Gabe asks slyly, elbowing Dean as he sidles up next to him. He flips the alulae of his golden wings mischievously. “Shame we couldn’t get Sam-a-lam out here. He loves this place.”

Dean has to do a double take. “Wait, what now? Drag?”

Gabe raises one tawny eyebrow. “Uh, yeah dude. Did Charlie not tell you?”

Dean half-watches the woman-- the queen-- finish her routine, laughing and bowing and blowing kiss after kiss to the approving audience. The emcee thanks Zara Foxx for Her Grooviness’ appearance. 

Charlie  _ definitely  _ didn’t tell him about this being a drag show. “No. No, she didn’t.”

“I didn’t because you’d find a reason not to show, and you know it,” Charlie quips from his other side, handing him one of the two Lapwing bottles she’s holding. “No one’s judging you here. You don’t have to hide anything-- isn’t it great?”

It’ll be fun so long as Charlie stops trying to psych ops him into some sort of epiphany, he thinks as he takes the offered beer. She’s totally right-- most of the queer folk they hang with and bars they frequent have this kinda refreshing ‘we don’t give a fuck who you are as long as you’re not an asshole’ vibe, and he _ fits in _ a lot more than anyone but his therapist knows-- but when your brother and your best friend keep cornering you into insultingly unsubtle conversations about being closeted and how it’s ‘okay to love yourself as you are’, it’s hard to find that chill again.

Given that Dean’s already dealing with mind-game bullshit from the opposite end of the spectrum any time he has to go supervise Dad’s macho-man buddies doing basic maintenance on the collider, he doesn’t exactly have a lot of chill to begin with.

Hence why he spends even more of his nights hanging out at his place with Cas-- he’d much rather be sprawled out on his squashy secondhand couch with his Switch or a good book while Cas paints or reads or watches TV. If it happens more like four times a week than one or two, well… Cas isn’t complaining since Dean’s place is closer to his work, and Dean gets to see his best friend more often. There’s no expectations with Cas, no constant observation, no ham-fisted efforts to get him to talk about his ‘repressed feelings’ or set him up with people he doesn’t know and doesn’t like. He and Cas just hang out and enjoy each other’s presence and junky takeout as-is, no weird… whatever it is Charlie and Sam have been trying to pull over the last couple months.

Not that Cas doesn’t push him around sometimes. He’s always wrapped up in soft sweaters and fleece pants and fluffy slippers, sure, but he doesn’t take bullshit from anyone, especially not Dean. Hell, the cranky little fucker was the one to drag Dean to therapy in the first place like fifteen years ago after Dean picked a fight-- much as Dean protested then, he’s nothing but grateful for it (and for Doc Moseley) now. Hard not to be when both of ‘em were all that’d kept him sane while he’d been slaving over his dissertation. Long and short of it is, Cas had been the guy who taught Dean about healthy boundaries in the first place, and he’s always been the guy to respect them totally. He’s smart and witty and a bit of a weirdo, and he’s probably the only person who  _ always _ makes Dean feel unconditionally competent, intelligent, and… like, _ valid. _

Dean grimaces when the opening beat of P!NK’s “Get The Party Started” rattles through the bar. Not only has he been brought out under false impressions, but now he gets to relive his senior year of undergrad. “All I think of when I hear this song is final grades anxiety and the sound of my money being flushed down the grad school application toilet,” he grouses. Gabe cackles and signs the quip to Eileen; Dean takes advantage of Gabe’s distraction to lean in toward Charlie a bit. “I’m a little pissed, too, to be honest.”

Charlie deflates.

Dean fucking hates that so many of his friends are nosy  _ and _ lovable, because calling them out on their bullshit inevitably feels like kicking a puppy. “Charles, I agreed to come out here for a low-key night with my friends, not some kind of surprise public test. I’m gonna be pissed because I know I’ve talked about this with you, and I didn’t exactly go for ‘subtle’ last time.” He sighs and shakes his head. “Listen. I’m gonna stick around for now, but if I start feeling like I’m under a microscope again, I’m gonna call a cab and leave, okay?”

Charlie, bless her, is wise enough to recognize the boundaries and the olive branch. “You got it, chief. I… sorry.”

Dean wraps an arm around her shoulders. “Thanks, Red. Seriously.” Whatever this… phase is that she and Sam are going through, they’ve been his family for a hell of a lot longer than that, and he knows it’s coming from a place of love, however misguided. 

“Oh wow,” Eileen says aloud, and when Dean, Gabe, and Charlie turn to look, it’s hard not to agree. The latest queen is human, short, and ferocious, with a foot-tall, neon pink spiked mohawk, intense eyeliner and black lipstick, and enough straps, buckles, and spikes for three Final Fantasy characters. A hot pink Converse block heel kicks high up in the air before coming down with a stomp as she syncs the chorus; now that she’s bowed down in her lunge, Dean can see that her black shirt’s held together in the back by two enormous safety pins.

Dean really can’t help but smile now. Whether she’s mocking or rocking the Hot Topic look, she’s pulling it off. 

Despite the minor financial and educational trauma associated with the song, the punky queen (Jenny Crush, according to Eileen and a flyer for the night’s revue) and her enthusiasm make the act a ton of fun to watch and listen to. The act that follows is a little bit of a musical whiplash (P!NK to Patsy Cline is a helluva leap) but then Dixxie Maria comes out in a 110% perfect, extra-sparkly  _ escaramuza _ costume and then the song’s actually in Spanish and well, Dean’s always had a thing for the West and the Southwest and basically anything set there, so he can’t really be blamed for whooping and cheering like an absolute idiot.

Gabe and Eileen, who’d managed to finagle both a chair and themselves into said chair, give Dean knowing looks.  _ “Got a thing for Maria, Dean?”  _ Eileen’s hands slyly tease.

Eileen is allowed to tease him. She scares the hell out of him sometimes, but she’s clever and good and regularly checks Sam’s nagging, and Dean loves her to death for it.

Gabe chuckles and gives a suggestive eyebrow waggle.  _ “You know he’s got a thing for Westerns. Makes sense he’d like ‘em south of the border, too.” _

Unlike Eileen, Gabe is mostly harmless but a bit (lies: a lot) trashy. Dean still doesn’t understand what drew Sam to him in the first place, or why Eileen agreed to date them both, and he’s spent nearly ten years trying to puzzle those out. That aside, though, Gabe doesn’t get involved with Sam’s ‘projects’, so Dean can tolerate some dirty jokes at his own expense.

“ _ She was dressed as a traditional Mexican lady equestrian, like, to a T, _ ” he signs back. Never mind that she was cute and curvy and laughing literally her entire song. “ _ You know me. I’m the guy who can rattle off the names of every famous sheriff, cowboy, Chief, and bandit over the entire Wild West period. How can I not appreciate attention to detail? _ ”

He knows he’s protesting too much, but seriously. One, her costume was authentic (if sparkled-up a little bit), and two, sometimes someone’s just cute, right? Doesn’t have to be A Thing. As he turns to ignore their rapid-fire sign language snickering, the lights suddenly dim down until they’re standing in near-total darkness. 

“And now,” the emcee purrs, “here to light up our night with another stellar showing, it’s Astra L’Aria, who’ll be performing with sizzling special guest Cain!”

Stagehands must have worked at close to the speed of light during that pause, because when a spotlight blinks on as a funky synth bassline throbs through the bar, it highlights a modern chaise lounge with a svelte, almost hourglass figure in a stunning halter-top bodycon dress reclined on its cushions. She’s draped in a delicate navy mesh that flows around her body like smoke, and her face is half-obscured by a veil of silken, gauzy night blue fabric, this one with a notable ombre of transparency. All Dean can see is the very tip of her nose, just a hint of smooth, sun-kissed cheeks, an etched jaw, and a pair of truly plush, dusky-pink lips, half parted as she twirls a silvery nail through one of the soft, raven-black curls that trail down past her collarbones. Her silky-smooth legs, exposed and framed by the slit in the dress’ slinky dark blue fabric, are bare beneath her veils, powerful thighs, shapely calves, and almost delicate ankles disappearing into the draped fabric of her dress.

Ho. Lee. Shit.

Dean can’t fuckin look away. It’s like her veil keeps his eyes on her mouth like a goddamn cage. She looks like one of Cas’ art pieces, all smoky hauteur and potent sensuality.

Another spotlight blinks on, twice in time with a twin cymbal hit in the beat. Standing just out of the first pool of light at the foot of couch, a man with a lion’s mane of silver hair and intense, blue eyes gazes down at Astra L’Aria. Dressed to kill, goatee trimmed to perfection, he looks every inch the debonair gentleman. He eyes Astra lustily, head tipping this way and that to exaggerate the way his eyes trail over tanned skin and dark fabric. Astra seems peripherally aware but almost bored, ignoring him entirely as he moves behind the couch to her side. 

A second pair of cymbal hits sees the man stopping where he is, lip-syncing as the first verse of the song begins. 

_ I’d love to comb your hair,  _ a male voice says in a light tenor purr as the man’s hands ghost around the outline of Astra’s head.  _ Your hair is such a mess. Just take off that dress. I’d love to comb your hair. _

Astra syncs the next lines, the veil framing her lush lips turning her enunciation of each syllable into something almost like a snarl.  _ I don’t like my hair neat. I don’t like my hair neat. I don’t like my hair neat. I don’t like my hair neat.  _

There’s literally nothing explicit about any of it, yet it’s unbearably erotic.

The silver haired man air-strokes a hand down Astra L’Aria’s leg.  _ Just take off your shoes, just take off your shoes. _ As she moves, his fingers catch in her veil and pull it away, revealing pristine stiletto ankle boots, the spotlight twinkling on tiny gems sprinkled over dusky, translucent mesh.  _ You’ve nothing left to lose. Just take off your shoes. _

Astra slides her legs to the front of the couch, toes and heels coming to rest daintily on the stage floor.  _ These shoes stay on my feet. _ Dean’s breath seems to catch in his chest as she sits up and a pair of night-dark wings that glitter as if dusted with diamond come up to mantle her shoulders.  _ These shoes stay on my feet. These shoes stay on my feet! _

Her veils move like smoke through the air as Astra L’Aria stands and begins to walk down the stem of the stage’s T, heels clicking in time with the beat of the music. The silver haired man tilts his head as if listening while Astra L’Aria poses and paces along what’s essentially become her catwalk.  _ What’s that sound? I like that sound. I love that sound. _

Astra stops before a chair that matches the chaise she’d been on earlier, right at the end of the runway.  _ It’s the sound of my shoes,  _ she hums, so close Dean can feel the air stirred up by her sleek wings.

Toned muscle ripples and flexes beneath golden skin as Astra L’Aria uses the chair as the center of a simple, sensual dance.  _ What’s that sound? _ Her wings and her wicked heels glitter in the light, flashes of cherry-red enamel winking from the soles of her feet.  _ I like that sound. _ Her veils and the blacker-than-black of her primaries slide and flow over the shape of the chair in a careless caress with every turn.  _ I love that sound. _

_ It’s the sound of my shoes. _

Dean’s fucking riveted. The whole damn world has fallen away, leaving only the sultry, dangerous slither of the way Astra moves. Some part of his brain is running in endless circles, trying to comprehend the way the curves of her powerful body are rendered so sensually feminine. Like, nothing about her dress changes her natural shape-- no ruffles at the bust or hip, no fake boobs, no corset, no nothing-- and yet something about the way her slinky black dress drapes over her body (and those fucking  _ thighs _ , Jesus  _ Christ _ ) and her natural, feline grace just… makes it work. 

Another, smaller part of him is wondering what it means that he’s so damn mesmerized by a drag queen, but it’s mostly getting crushed under his lizard brain’s ‘ _yes good, good shapes, what do with shapes, want touch? hold?? shapes????_ ’ and his higher brain’s ‘the fuck kind of physics is even happening here, how does she  _ move  _ like that, gravity’s gotta be broken, what  _ is _ she’.

The music goes back to the verse bassline; Astra slinks into the chair not even ten feet from where Dean’s standing and crosses her legs, one wicked, red-soled stiletto moving in time with the beat. She lifts one hand lazily, fanning and flexing her fingers as she examines the mirror-finish silver manicure on each nail.

The silver haired man strolls up to the chair, moving around behind it and watching Astra’s hand.  _ I’d love to hold your hand,  _ the man syncs, caging a gloved hand around Astra’s lifted one,  _ wearing my brand new gloves. This must be real love; I’d love to hold your hand. _

Astra flicks his hand away carelessly, silvery nails curling into lazy claws after she does.  _ Those gloves don’t touch my skin. Those gloves don’t touch my skin. Those gloves don’t touch my skin.  _

Damn fuckin’ straight, Dean’s lizard brain thinks before the rest of his brain catches up.

The man doesn’t get the signal, because he catches one of Astra’s hands in his gloved ones.  _ I’d love to do your nails, before someone gets hurt,  _ he says, lifting her fingers one by one and miming a filing motion with his free hand. Astra takes her hand away, only to lift it to the side of his face when he leans down closer to her level.  _ Don’t be such a flirt. I’d love to do those nails. _

As he leans down to mouth the last line, Astra’s hand moves to his exposed throat.  _ These nails have served me well,  _ she syncs, veiled face barely even moving to acknowledge the man’s proximity.  _ These nails have served me well.  _ Her fingertips track a slow slide from the back of his neck down toward the front of his throat, but the shape of her hand is anything but that of a lover’s caress.  _ These nails have served me well! _

Just like that, Astra is on her feet in a nebulous cloud of veils, heels click-clicking away on the stage floor in perfect time to the beat while her sleek wings glitter in the stagelights. She doesn’t even stop for the first reprise of the chorus, pink lips forming ‘ _ It’s the sound of my shoes _ ’ as she gracefully prowls the stage. 

_ What’s that sound? _

_ I like that sound. _

_ I love that sound.  _

Astra’s wings flare as she comes to a halt facing the silver haired man. 

_ It’s the sound of my shoes.  _

As the song throbs on and Astra allows the man to approach, it becomes clear that what’s happening isn’t him succeeding in his seduction-- it’s Astra carrying out a slow reversal. The man’s reaches and caresses quickly come under her direction, then cease entirely. Her chin lifts, her sleek wings rise, and the man slowly, slowly falls to his knees, his neatly-trimmed chin held delicately but inescapably in the silvered tips of Astra’s fingers. 

Raven locks tumble loose, cascading down and hiding Astra’s face before Dean can even catch a glimpse. Her right wing drags over the man’s chest as she rounds his shoulders to stand at his back, then fans out, out, out with its twin to mantle them in an imposingly broad, night-dark canopy. Her veil, now held in her hands, falls over the silver haired man’s eyes, then goes taut as the song closes with Astra’s sparkling, cherry-soled heel resting between his bowed shoulders.

The lights cut.

When they do come back on, it’s only the emcee, repeating Astra’s name and thanking Cain for his supporting performance, and then something about shoes and tea; in all honesty, he barely registers any of it. He’s vaguely aware that another song and show has started, but he’s still lost in his head, trying desperately to understand what just happened.

Whatever this is, Dean thinks dazedly, it’s… familiar, in a way. It’s like the way he feels when he first meets a woman he’s attracted to-- something about the way she’s shaped, the way she moves, just sets his lizard brain off like a bomb with the desire to touch. He once described it to Doc Moseley as almost wanting to roll in the sensations, to press every inch of his body to hers, because he knows it’ll feel so, so good. Hell, he’s come untouched before just from good sensations (Rhonda hadn’t hesitated to abuse that knowledge, much to Dean’s delight). The way those smoky veils moved, the sight of lean muscles tensing and easing beneath her golden-tan skin, her plush, glossed lips, the heavy spring of her dress’ fabric, even the sleek-feathered brush of her wings-- Astra L’Aria had been a feast of sensory stimulus, all without even coming within five feet of Dean’s person. 

It’s new, though, too, he thinks as a queen in a silvery, futuristic jumpsuit and chromed boots performs to an electronic song with a crooning, female vocalist and a kicky twelve-eight beat. A lot of this whole thing is new, but getting his crazy touch cravings for someone he knows is a guy (or at least guy shaped) is… novel. He’s found men attractive before-- Doctor Sexy comes to mind, or Harrison Ford, or (God help him) The Fonz-- but it’s always been just the visual appreciation, like ‘damn, that is a  _ man _ , lemme just kick back and look for a while’, with only a vague desire to touch and explore. He’s not sure how Astra L’Aria identifies, but she’d been built like some sort of lean Greek god, all broad chest and narrow waist and powerful thighs. All of it had registered as ‘woman, woman, WOMAN!’ during her show, but the underlying masculine shape was very much (and, he thinks, very deliberately) there.

As a (frankly adorable) queen who wouldn’t look out of place in Candy Crush Saga performs a 50s-style dance routine to the Chordettes, Dean’s slowly starting to feel a little uncomfortable. Not because Astra’s a man or man-shaped behind the costume, not at all that-- hot is hot and he’s not dead. He just wonders if he’s a trash human for a) perving on a woman who’s essentially a fictional character and b) possibly crushing on the queen but not the man/person behind her. Drag queens are, like, characters, right? He knows a little about the scene, but most of what he understands is that it’s all about, like, creating this persona and taking gender and cranking it to eleven or something. Does it make him bad, somehow, if he’s attracted to someone only when they’re playing that character, or is it just a natural consequence of him being a (mostly) straight man presented with a deliberately sensual, erotic show featuring someone presenting as a woman? Is that in and of itself shitty? 

Now he’s trying to picture Astra L’Aria except in a suit, and he’s feeling basically the same way--  _ touch touch touch, yes good _ . Then he wonders, is it because he’s still seeing Astra as female, or is it because he’s actually kinda hot for dude-Astra? He knows he likes the way women feel, but what about… women with hair on their chests, with serious musculature, maybe with stubble? What about not-women with all that? His fingertips brush his own cheek absently; how would that feel on his skin, and what would it be like to have big hands rest on his hips, his back, his chest? What do those kinds of muscles feel like, and how soft would the skin covering them be?

But is it right for him to even be thinking about any of this with Astra in mind, knowing that she’s a character created by a very real, feeling, human being whose gender may or may not be female? That’s where his brain shuts down with anxiety over the whole thing. Also, there’s the fact that, whoever Astra L’Aria is, they are whole kiloparsecs out of his league _.  _ They’re powerful and graceful and totally self-assured, and Dean’s a fumbling, baggage-laden dweeb very, very far from his Fermilab lair. 

Suffice it to say, Dean is 10,000% too intimidated to even so much as _consider_ trying to talk to her or the person who created her.

A giant hand landing on his shoulder startles him out of his thoughts. “So get this,” Sam chirps, grinning when Dean levels a grade-A bitchface his way. “The guys at work let me out early! Came over as quickly as I could.” He pats Dean’s shoulder with his giant-ass paw. “Enjoying the show?”

“Uh, sure, yeah,” Dean says, trying to paste a semi-genuine smile on his face. “The costumes were something else, man. Must take a lot of work to put together.”

Sam laughs. “I heard from Gabe about the cowgirl queen,” he teases as he thumps an elbow into Dean’s shoulder. “Consider me shocked.”

Dean rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. “She was an  _ escaramuza _ , Sam, not just a cowgirl. Except for the extra sequins and glitter, she was pretty much in authentic gear, and that’s like… I respect that attention to detail, man. I respect that.” 

They’re both distracted by a swell in the noise and crowd toward where the stage had been set up; Dean catches sight of a tall, pink mohawk and the first queen, Zara Foxx, over the tops of the heads of a small squadron of college-aged girls. 

His heart flies into his throat-- are the queens coming back out to the bar proper? 

Is it all of them, or just Zara and the punky one? 

The crowd shifts and parts, and he catches a glimpse of familiar, spangled fabric-- Dixxie Maria is behind the bar, mixing drinks and chattering with the crowd. The candy-cute queen bustles to and fro with a drinks tray, white kitten heels click-clicking away on the bar’s wood floor. 

“Dude, are you okay?”

Dean’s head snaps back around to see Sam looking at him with even more skepticism than usual. “Uh, yeah, man, just… distracted, is all.”

Across the room, something sparkles.

He tries not to be obvious about it-- Sam’s like a damn dog with a bone if he thinks he’s ‘onto something’-- but fuck, Dean can’t help it, he’s already scanning the crowd and fuck it all, there she is. Her back is turned, but that just means Dean has the perfect view of the delicate, crystal-strewn netting draped over Astra L’Aria’s wings. 

A glance back at Sam tells Dean all he needs to know about what’s gonna happen. Sam’s just turning back to look at Dean, too-- he’d followed Dean’s gaze, and now Dean’s gotta escape both Sam  _ and  _ the literal divine being holding court  _ right near the damn bar’s entrance.  _

Fuck.

“I, uh. I forgot I had to make a work call,” Dean lies weakly. He tries to duck away, but Sam is one of those unfairly quick big men, and just like that, Sam’s got his elbow gripped in one strong hand. “Dude. Dude, no, no, I can’t… Sam, let me go.”

“Nope,” says Sam. He steps behind Dean and grasps his opposite shoulder. “I know that look. You’re just gonna run away if I let you go. You deserve this, dude, and who knows, maybe you’ll hit it off!”

Dean throws a mortified glare back at his brother. “What the fuck, Sam? This isn’t… she’s not a  _ thing  _ to be deserved, or won, or… or… dude, I said  _ let me go! _ ”

People have been glancing at them as they approached, but they’re just close enough that Dean’s last, just-a-little-too-loud growl at Sam is the one that gets Astra L’Aria’s attention.

She raises a manicured hand to request the woman speaking with her wait, turns-

It’s like all the air gets sucked out of the room in an instant.

“Cas?”

Cas’ eyes, mesmerizingly bright under his kohl-dark lashes, move over Dean’s face, down his body, and then back up again. He (she? They? Oh fuck, did he fuck up by saying Cas’ name instead of Astra L’Aria? Fuck fuck fuck) doesn’t betray an ounce of surprise, but Dean can’t find words after that one, punched-out gasp. 

Cas’ gaze then lands on Sam’s hand on his shoulder and drops to the hand grasping Dean’s elbow. Even softened somewhat by his makeup, the stony glare he levels at Sam has razor sharp edges. “I’m disappointed in you, Sam,” he says, quietly but firmly. Sam starts to speak, but Cas cuts him off with a raised hand. “I don’t want to hear it; I know Dean has spoken to you about your refusal to listen to his wishes. Leave us.  _ Now _ .”

Suddenly, Dean’s totally unmoored as Sam backs off in a hurry. 

Cas’ eyes return to Dean’s. “Hello, Dean.” His familiar, lopsided smile is made novel by the delicate pink gloss tinting his full lips. “You were obviously brought over under duress. If you don’t wish to speak with me like this, I… I will understand.” Just like that, he’s back in character, the familiar-but-not-quite Cas hidden away.

Under Astra L’Aria’s aloof, even imperious guise, though, Dean recognizes the wary glint in his friend’s eyes-- Cas is bracing himself for careless words, even cruel ones. He isn’t stopping Dean, either, or trying to deny anything. 

The realization hits him like a truck. Whatever leaves Dean’s mouth, however he responds? 

It will leave a mark. One he may never be able to erase.

After nearly twenty years of having Cas in his life, after too many times atoning for the consequences of his posturing, after multiple occasions of Cas dragging him out of bed and into his therapist’s office, the fear of being ‘weak’ or ‘gay’ or whatever bullshit label his dad had beaten into him doesn’t even match the horror of a life without Cas in it anymore. He doesn’t have a name to give to this… this feeling he’s had about Cas, but whatever it is, it’s so big it’s fucked with his head on and off since they were in college. For the last couple of years, even the hookups haven’t been as appealing, because a night in on the couch watching trashy dramas or half-sprawled over each other with books or fics or Dean’s Switch is just… it’s just better. 

And, now that he’s seen Cas as Astra, seen this crazy sensual powerful feminine work of art side of his best friend that he never knew existed? It’s like his brain’s on overdrive as it re-examines every little memory, every little thought. He doesn’t even need to imagine Astra L’Aria out of costume any more. He knows exactly how Cas is shaped, knows exactly how much he loves his friend’s firm, warm weight sacked out next to him on the couch, knows precisely what his normally-mussed wings feel like curled over his shoulders. 

Now he knows (or maybe he’s finally acknowledging; he’ll have to ask Doc Moseley about that, fuck, does this make him even trashier than before?) that he’s felt the wish for more touch-- for more  _ more _ \-- with Cas for a long time. Forget the hangup over the touch thing. He’s looking at a chance (maybe _the_ chance) to repay some of Cas’ quiet, unswerving support and acceptance through some of Dean’s darkest and most vulnerable periods.

He absolutely cannot fuck this up. He’s gotta say  _ exactly  _ the right thing. Cas deserves it.

“I’d talk with you if you were up here in a neon pink fursuit, Cas,” is what his brain comes up with first.

He winces almost as soon as it leaves his mouth. 

Cas lifts a perfectly-groomed eyebrow.

Dean panics. “Fuck. I mean, I… fuck, not that this is weird, or furries are weird, or... or that fursuits are weird, Y-K-I-N-M-K and all that, even if some of ‘em are kinda scary,  _ fuck  _ I am ruining this, fuck fuck fuck, but like, dud-- uh, Cas? Astra? Fuck, I am useless, and you’re just like some kind of… of  _ goddess  _ over here, and I had no fuckin’ clue it was you until like, just now? And holy shit you were just…”

Cas watches him flounder for words, eyebrow still raised. Dean’s too anxious to get a good read on what the hell that face is supposed to mean. 

Finally, flustered to the point where he can’t even maintain eye contact with anything but the walls or his feet, horrifyingly aware that people are actually  _ staring _ at them now, he gives up. “You’re  _ beautiful _ , Cas.” His face feels like it might burst into flame at any moment; the blush has almost certainly gone right down past his shirt collar. “Y’were beautiful up there, like one of those paintings you showed me. The ones with the gold. You were this strong, confident mystery being up there that looked and moved like art and hell, I’m just some grease monkey with fancy papers, what was I gonna say to someone like that? It wasn’t because it was you, Cas. Don’t you ever think that. I don’t think I know how to  _ live _ without you-- hell, I don’  _ wanna  _ know. A little makeup isn’t gonna scare me away.”

Cas holds his gaze for a very long, very scary moment. 

“It couldn’t have helped that Sam had clearly stated he was bringing you over here to ‘hit it off’ with me.”

Cas’ blue eyes twinkle as he breaks character and winks. Dean just about falls over with relief; after a declaration like that, he’s not sure that he could have taken a serious response. “You have no fuckin’ clue, dude. I’m gonna have to sic Charlie and Eileen on him.”

Cas hums in agreement. “I may join them.” He lifts one hand, palm down, in an offer for Dean to take it. “I won’t be hurt if you’d rather not, but I’d like to introduce you to my friends. Walk with me?”

  
  
Before he can start doubting himself, Dean lifts his own hand and gently cradles Cas’ silver-tipped one. “S-sure. I, uh, I’d like that.”

  
  
Chuckling, Cas begins to lead Dean back toward the bar proper. “Don’t worry, I’ll help. I’m not about to throw you to the wolves.” He pauses and turns to face Dean, their clasped hands held between them. “And… for what it’s worth?” He squeezes Dean’s hand. “I don’t know-- or want to know-- how to live without you, either.”

Gravity forgets its job for a little while, and Dean feels a smile beginning to creep across his face. “I… really?”

  
  
Cas nods. “Come. Let’s meet the girls and Cain, and then let’s… let’s pick up dinner before we go home to the Loop to talk. Ghareeb?

Dean’s brain stutters a little. Home to the Loop? Cas lives in Ravenswood, well north of downtown.

Oh.

Dean lives just off Balbo.

  
  
Dean lives in the Loop.

  
  
_ Home to the Loop. _

Grinning, too unexpectedly warmed from the inside to remember to be anxious, Dean follows when Cas resumes their leisurely walk. “It’s a date.”

**Author's Note:**

> The queens, their creators, and their chosen tracks for the night:
> 
> Zara Foxx - Raphael Johnson - Rose Royce, 'Car Wash'  
> Jenny Crush - Harry Spangler - P!NK, 'Get The Party Started'  
> Dixxie Maria - Cesar Cuevas - Unknown artist, 'La Rosa de San Antonio'  
> Astra L'Aria - Castiel Novak - Tiga, 'Shoes'  
> > Accompanied by Cain Knight, who was dressed and styled by his spouse Colette.  
> LaSienne - Victor Henrikson - Goldfrapp, 'Strict Machine'  
> Dollie - Barack Kiel (Barachiel) - The Chordettes, 'Lollipop' 
> 
> Astra L'Aria is the name of a drag persona I've been designing for a while. She, in turn, gets her name from Astralaria, a gorgeous space-themed legendary axe in Guild Wars 2. 
> 
> Dean is an engineer working at Fermilab in Batavia, Illinois; he double-majored in mechanical engineering and physics at MIT, graduated magna cum laude despite John's best efforts, and holds a master's and doctorate in cryogenic engineering. He helps maintain, design, and build components that keep the collider's twenty-seven kilometer length at a nice, frosty two Kelvin. He's also the unhappy supervisor of John Winchester's team of mechanics, who perform basic maintenance that doesn't require specialization. He's written here as a highly-sensual grey-asexual (write what you know, eh?), and if I'd had the chutzpah to write an E-rated continuation, he'd be SUBBY AS ALL GET OUT, my friends. Praise kink ALL DAY.
> 
> Castiel holds a Master's in fine art and is a curator at a small gallery in the city of Chicago. He also teaches classes at the Art Institute of Chicago. He's best known for his oil, acrylic, and watercolor paintings, but makes a not-inconsiderable sum of money producing finely-crafted wood furniture, sculpture, and kitchenware. It's expensive to rent the workspace, so he only gets to play with woodworking once or twice a year, if that. Sometimes gets so lost in the Art Zone that Dean has to feed and water him. It isn't written here, but he's demisexual, demiboy, and has a nurturing dom streak a mile wide. 
> 
> The Loop - The central part of downtown Chicago, so named because of the CTA L train tracks that create a large loop through the downtown area.
> 
> Sheridan - A major, very scenic road that runs north-south along the Lake Michigan shoreline from the suburb of Highland Park down to the entry ramps for Lake Shore Drive. If something is north of the Loop and close to Sheridan, it's very close to the lake.
> 
> Lapwing - A highly-rated Scotch ale from Sketchbook Brewing Company, a microbrewery based in Evanston, just north of Chicago's city limits.
> 
> Ghareeb - Ghareeb Nawaz, a corner restaurant on Devon in the far northern part of the city that serves kingly portions of delicious Indian and Pakistani food for a mere pittance, and is open 8am to 4am daily. 
> 
> And before anyone takes exception to the fursuit comment-- I'm in the community and I like 'em. They're tons of work and dedication to a character, a lot like drag in some ways. Dean's just a dingus trying (and failing) to express that there are almost no circumstances in which he wouldn't go be seen at Cas' side as his friend. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading, and I hope this was enjoyable! I had a lot of fun writing it. <3


End file.
